


We Bury Our Dead

by der_tanzer



Series: Puppy Love [3]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-26
Updated: 2010-05-26
Packaged: 2017-10-09 17:41:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/89927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/der_tanzer/pseuds/der_tanzer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pavel felt his heart break open in his chest, overwhelmed at last, and wailed his grief to Scotty's understanding soul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Bury Our Dead

**Author's Note:**

> Original character death, much angst and grief.  
> With much help from Oddmonster, my partner in Trek.

Sitting at his station, Pavel didn't know when the word came down. He was aware of the captain getting up and leaving the bridge, but that happened sometimes. He didn't see who it was that came for him and wouldn't think to ask. A few minutes later, Kirk was back and that didn't go unnoticed, either. It wasn't his usual dramatic entrance, but Kirk was still hard to miss. Chekov glanced back over his shoulder to check out the captain's expression, as if he would see something there that he needed to know. But all he saw was the top of Kirk's head, bent over a PADD as he tapped out a rapid message. Chekov turned back to his console and was on the verge of dismissing it as the captain's business when Sulu suddenly stiffened beside him. He heard his friend choke back a gasp and leaned over automatically to see what he was seeing. There had never been any secrets between them, not since the first day they sat down together at this station, accidental colleagues due to McKenna's lungworm. But this time Hikaru shifted his body to block the screen, then beeped the message away.

That was when Pavel began to be scared.

"Hikaru," he whispered, his eyes carefully on the panel before him, "what is wrong?"

"Close your station, Ensign," he said crisply.

Pavel stopped being scared then and started being terrified instead. Sulu was locking his station out, too, which meant they were leaving together. The message, the strange looks—it was about him, and now he was going to be escorted off the bridge. Chekov locked his station and rose, unreasonably surprised to find his knees shaking. His mind was racing, trying to figure out what he'd done wrong. Why did the captain look at him with pitying eyes? Why did Uhura turn away, her elegant chin trembling? Why did even Spock refuse to meet his gaze? Was he suddenly a pariah? He wished Monty was there, and that thought stopped him in his tracks. That must be what this was about. Everyone knew, everyone had always known, but it must be wrong somehow. His heart began to race and he prayed that however much trouble he was in, Monty would be okay. It hadn't been his fault.

They reached the turbo lift just as the door slid open, releasing the two men who would be replacing them. That was the first time he wondered if Sulu was in trouble, too. Maybe all of his friends were going down with him.

Unless… He stepped into the turbo lift and gripped Sulu's arm as the door hissed closed.

"Hikaru," he said, his voice small and broken. It couldn't be, he would have known. There would have been chatter on the comms that they couldn't route around him. But still…still. "Karu, where did that message come from? Tell me, please."

"Pavel—"

"Hikaru, you are my friend. Do not let them blindside me this way. It was from medical, no?"

"Yes, Pavel. But don't worry." Sulu flinched even as he said the words, knowing they were stupid, and that Chekov knew it, too.

"Karu—"

"Come on," Sulu interrupted as the lift stopped and the doors opened. Chekov, suddenly frightened beyond all description, literally out of his wits with dread, dragged back on his arm.

"No. No, Karu, do not make me. I do not want to go."

Sulu, who already knew the worst and would not have traded places with his best friend for anything, paused and took a deep breath. He pressed the button to hold the door and put his arm around Chekov's trembling shoulders.

"I'll go with you, Pavel. It's all right."

But that was a lie, too. No one was called from the bridge in the middle of a shift and escorted to medical by his second most trusted friend when everything was all right. Still, Chekov was a man, an officer, tested in battle and not found wanting. He could do this. He straightened his back and the tremble disappeared.

"Yes," he said with only the barest hint of a tremor in his voice. "Yes, it must be. I am ready now."

Sulu dropped his arm and they walked side by side down the corridor to sick bay.

Even Chekov didn't know how tightly wound he was until he stepped into McCoy's office and saw Scotty sitting there, looking worried but unharmed. It felt like all the tendons in his body had come unstrung, and for a second he wasn't sure he could stay on his feet. But then it struck him, if Scotty was here and uninjured, what else could possibly be wrong?

"You wish to see me, Doctor?" he said, unable to hide the tremor so well this time.

"Come in and sit down," McCoy said gruffly, gesturing to the chair next to Scotty. Chekov took a step, his legs shaking, and Sulu gripped his arm again. As soon as he was seated, Scotty took his hand and suddenly he knew. McCoy rose, seeming to want to pace, and finally sat down on the edge of his desk. Chekov saw a hypospray close at hand and that confirmed his suspicions. He only needed a few details filled in, and then he could fall apart.

"Pavel," McCoy said quietly, and that was another clue. This man had never called him by his Christian name, and Chekov would have bet money that he never would. But here it was, like the end of the world. "Pavel, we received a message a few minutes ago, from earth."

"From Russia," he said, tears already stinging his eyes.

"Yeah. From Russia. The captain asked me to be the one to tell you—"

"Zo tell me," he said thickly. "How bad iz it, Doktor? Iz it—all of them?"

"All—no, son. No, your mama's in the hospital but she'll be all right. You'll be able to talk to her in a couple of days. Your sister, Tatyana, she's with an uncle. Sasha, I think."

Pavel nodded. He had an Uncle Sasha.

"And Papa?" But he knew. Hadn't he known all along?

"He didn't make it, Pavel. I'm sorry."

Dimly, he heard McCoy explaining what had happened, some sort of small aircraft accident of the type that Pavel associated more with the twentieth century than the twenty-third, with its space travel and transporter technology. Later he would wonder why his family had been traveling by plane at all, but right now it didn't matter. Papa was gone. His papa, the great Andrei Chekov who had made him everything he was, wiped off the face of the earth while Pavel, the child of his dreams, soared through space. He saw his future, suddenly vast and empty, meaningless without his father to make proud, without Andrei's approval to seek.

He didn't know that he was crushing Scotty's hand and didn't feel him squeezing back. Abruptly, he released it and stood, turning toward the door, wanting only to get away from the doctor's voice and the pitying eyes of the two men he loved best. The two he loved best after his father, who was no more. The room tilted suddenly and he went to his knees, one hand pressed hard to his chest as he gasped for air. He couldn't breathe past the swollen lump in his throat, couldn't see with his eyes so hot and blurred. He tried to gulp down air and instead made a noise that scared even McCoy. Scotty's hands were on his back, Sulu's voice somewhere behind him, far away and unimportant, and then he felt the bite of the hypo in his neck. The hands on his back slid around his chest, sparing him the collision with the floor that he expected, and then he knew no more.

"I wonder if there was a better way to do that," McCoy said, half to himself. "Scotty, can you pick him up?"

"Aye, sir. I can take it from here if you'd like."

"Probably for the best. Get him to bed and call me if he's still—like this—when he wakes up. I'll come by and check on him when I get off duty."

"Aye, thank you," Scotty said, lifting the limp body with infinite tenderness. Pavel was surprisingly light, and Scotty cradled him to his chest, feeling the slow, steady exhalation of his breath against his neck. "Mr. Sulu, I thank you, too. He'll be glad later that it were his friends here with him."

"He'll never look at me without remembering this," Hikaru said, not sounding sorry for himself, just stating a fact.

Scotty gave him a small, pained smile and shook his head. The office door opened as he approached and he carried Pavel away, down the corridor, to the turbo lift, and up to his quarters. He wanted the grieving man to be in his own bed if he woke in the night, although Scotty's quarters were nearly as familiar to him.

In the seven months they had been together, Scotty had undressed his young lover only twice. The first had been the first time they slept together, when both had been a little shy, a little uncertain, Scotty of his out of shape body, and Pavel of the idea of sex with someone so much more experienced. They had undressed each other that night, slow and cautious, both encouraging the other to lead and ultimately getting there together, as equals.

The second time was a month or so ago, when Pavel came home from a long, dangerous mission, too dirty to sleep and too tired to wash himself. That was what it took for the wee bairn to submit to any kind of care, and God help Monty if he used that word aloud. He'd said it once and Pavel had gone right to Uhura to find out what it meant. The resulting argument had lasted all day and after that, Scotty only thought it to himself. But he thought it a lot.

He set Pavel on the bed and held his upper body against his chest, pulling his shirts off over his head and laying him down gently. For a moment he just sat there, looking at Pavel's red rimmed eyes, watching his pale chest rise and fall with each shallow breath. He'd never seen his lover under sedation before and it scared him a little, both the forced sleep and the need for it. He petted the damp cheek lightly, then moved to the end of the bed to take off Pavel's shoes. It was eerie, how very still he was as Scotty stripped his pants off, but he smiled a little when he saw that Pavel wasn't wearing underwear. He often didn't, and Scotty always thought it was cute. But today it made him sad to think that his little navigator had started the day with such high hopes.

Scotty covered him warmly and got a damp cloth to bathe his face. Pavel didn't move, his eyelids didn't so much as twitch as the cloth ran over them, and Scotty suddenly wanted to wake him. Even if it meant watching him cry, he'd rather see Pavel's face animated and filled with color, than lying there so pale and still. Sighing heavily, Scotty put the cloth away and went to his desk to puzzle over some problems they were having in engineering. He called up his files on the console and forced himself to concentrate, while keeping one ear on Pavel's soft breathing.

Chekov was still sleeping when McCoy dropped by.

"He woken up yet?"

"No, sir. Sleeping like a baby, poor thing. Are there any plans to get him back to Mother Russia for the funeral?"

"I don't know. You'd have to ask the captain. Or Chekov. He'd probably have something to say about it." The doctor crouched down beside the bed and checked his pulse, smoothed Pavel's hair back with a gesture almost too intimate for Scotty to bear, and then straightened up again. "Keep an eye on him, Mr. Scott, and call me when he wakes."

"Aye, sir. Thank you."

As soon as he was gone, Pavel opened his eyes.

"Monty?" he whispered, turning half on his side and seeking his lover with the expression of a wounded puppy.

"You're awake. Let me get the doctor back," Scotty said, scrambling out of his chair.

"Nyet, l'ubimaya," he sighed, rubbing his face with both hands. "He woke me with his poking and prodding. I was pretending to be asleep until he left."

"Ah. How're you feeling, laddie?"

Chekov sat up, started to get out of bed, and faltered when he realized he was naked.

"Monty, was I dreaming before? About Papa?"

"No, Pasha," Scotty murmured, sitting down on the bed. "It was na' a dream."

Chekov drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, keeping himself well in hand.

"I do not know quite what to do next. Should I cry? Should I speak to the captain, or go back to work?"

"Pasha, love," he said, reaching awkwardly to stroke one bare arm. "You should do whatever you feel like."

"But I—I do not know how I feel."

"Are you hungry, then?"

"No, thank you." He rubbed his face again and slipped his hand into Scotty's. "I—I think I should get back to the bridge."

"No, no, Pasha. You'll not be on duty for a while. You need to take a little time to—to process all this."

"I do not think so, Monty. No, I should contact Tatyana, make sure she is okay, and then get back to work." He flung back the blankets and got out of bed, shaking Scotty's hand off gently. There was a pair of track pants by the bed and he pulled them on as he crossed to his desk. Scotty's programs were still running and he gave them a cursory glance, corrected a couple of equations, and then requested the computer to connect him with his Uncle Sasha. After a few minutes he was looking at twelve year old Tatyana, curled in Sasha's lap. He smiled at her and she burst into tears.

Scotty stayed on the bed out of sight, listening to their quiet conversation in Russian and wishing that Pavel would cry. He hadn't yet, beyond that first glaze of tears in the doctor's office, but it had to happen soon. If his little sister and his father's brother couldn't do it, Scotty didn't know what would. But Pavel was still dry eyed when he switched off the view screen and rose again.

"I should take a shower," he said. "Uncle Sasha says that ze funeral is in four days, so Mama can attend. If ze keptin approves, I can catch ze _Lionheart_ back to earth and be home in time."

"I'm sure we can get you there," Scotty said quietly. "But, Pasha, we should talk, don't ye think?" He didn't like the way Pavel's accent thickened while his burning eyes stayed dry.

"What would you like to talk about?" he asked, standing still in the middle of the room.

"What would I like ta talk aboot? You, of course. Ye can na' keep things bottled up, love. Tell me what's on yer mind."

Pavel cleared his throat and said, very clearly, "There is nothing to talk about. You cannot help me, Monty. If you could, I would ask. Now I would very much like a shower." He gave Scotty just a few seconds to respond and, when he didn't, left the room.

Scotty thought seriously about getting up and following him, but in the end he didn't. He remembered his own father, a tough old Scotsman who was lost on _The Pacific_ when little Monty was only seven. His mother had told him at bedtime as the house filled up with relatives, aunts and uncles and cousins all coming to pay their respects, while Monty wept in his mother's arms and was then left alone in the dark. He grew up knowing only the ghost of the man who inspired him, trying to live up to someone who would never be there to offer support or approval.

And now his darling Pasha would do the same. But not exactly. Pavel had known the approval of his father, had experienced some of the rewards of his efforts, and losing that would, in many ways, be worse. He was old enough to understand exactly what he had lost, and what he would miss for the rest of his life. Scotty's father was no more to him than a memory of aftershave and lullabies, and as painful as it was to have those few memories, having more was probably worse.

He sat there on the bed until Pavel came back, dressed in those same pants but with his curls wet and slicked back on his head. Beads of water still glittered on his freckled back as he sat down beside Scotty and sighed.

"Why does McCoy want to come back?" he asked, turning his wounded puppy eyes on Scotty. "Is it important to him that he see me cry as well?"

"I don' think so, love. But don't forget, ye fainted in his office not that long ago. And you've had quite a shock. He may think another sedative is in order."

"Well, I don't. Is my shift over? What time is it?"

"Aye, it's long over." He put his arm around Chekov's shoulders, feeling the dampness soaking through his sleeve. "Why don't ye let me get you something to eat? Some soup, at least. Then we can get the doctor back and—"

"Nyet," he said sharply, shrugging as if to shed Scotty's arm, but stopping before he succeeded. "I do not want _soup_, and I do not need the doctor. I want to go back to _work_."

Scotty thought for a long moment about all of the different ways to argue that, and finally settled on the lamest, but also the most likely to succeed.

"Pasha, yer shift is over. There's no work to be done tonight. Ye have to wait until tomorrow. If you won't eat, then at least come to bed."

"I am not tired," he said, though he was, in fact, exhausted. It felt like McCoy's sedative had taken all of the bounce right out of him.

"Well, I am. I was na' sleeping all afternoon, you know. At least lie doon wi' me until I go to sleep. Would you do that, love? As a favor to me?"

"If it will help you rest easier, Monty, of course." He lay down and waited while Scotty undressed and prepared for bed. There were no thoughts in Pavel's mind of sleep, only of doing whatever good he could manage for his lover before finding something else to occupy himself with. Perhaps he could work on the puzzles Scotty had left on his console. Their relationship was initially based on their common love of physics, and Scotty had always welcomed his help.

So the first thing he asked when they were snuggled into bed together was, "What were you working on today?"

Scotty told him rather briefly, not getting into the subject of power transfer conduits with nearly as much enthusiasm as Chekov would have expected. He kept pushing, asking questions, and growing increasingly frustrated with the short answers Scotty was providing.

"Monty, stop it," he said at last. "Tell me what is bothering you?"

"What's bothering me? Pasha—no, wait," he said, shaking his head to calm himself. "Pasha, tell me aboot yer da'."

"What about him?" Chekov asked quietly, tilting his head back on Scotty's shoulder to meet his eyes.

"Anything. Tell me something you want me to know. What kind of man was he?"

"He—he is—brilliant. Papa is an astrophysicist. He always wanted to go into space but he could not pass the physicals. Papa's parents were poor and when he was born, they could not get for him the kind of care that other children had. He was blind in one eye, and childhood diseases weakened his heart. So he studied at home, with books from the village library, until they were able to go to Moscow and put him in school. But he was not able to get his sight corrected until he had already set himself on the path to his current career."

"Is that why you joined Starfleet? To fulfill his dreams?"

"Da. That, and it is in my blood. I was raised with his books and charts and star maps. I never thought of doing anything else. I studied day and night, and he was my greatest teacher. Always encouraging but never demanding. He did not make me do anything, but he made it possible for me to do ewerything I wanted. And when Starfleet Academy accepted me, when I was fourteen, he let me go."

"Fourteen?"

"I finished in three years, just like ze keptin. Only it was easier for me, because I did not have all of the parties and dates like he did."

"You didn't date at the Academy?"

"Not much, Monty, you know that. I was busy. Just like in school, I was busy. Besides, there were very few boys who were interested in someone my age. They are prejudiced, you know. Always wanting someone older, or not so smart."

"Wait, they wanted someone _less_ smart?"

"Usually. I make men my own age feel stupid, Monty. I do not mean to, but it seems to be a natural reaction. When I was very young, I would try to hide how smart I was so that the other children would like me better. Papa caught me one day letting a boy explain to me something that I had known since I was six years old and he told me that was wrong. That I must always be myself, and one day someone would love me for it."

"Yer da' thought you wanted that boy to love you?"

"Maybe. I was ten or eleven then, not terribly interested in sex, but I knew that I would be—that I was—gay. Papa knew it before I did. Uncle Sasha is gay and he is Papa's younger brother. Myself, I only wanted to have friends, even if they were not as smart as me. But Papa was right. If I had pretended, if I had lied and held myself back, I would not be here now."

"He was right, Pasha. Yer confidence is one of yer greatest strengths, and I guess we have him to thank for it. I wish I could have met him."

"So do I. I talked to him about you all the time, though. From the day we met, I wrote and told him he was right, that I had met a man who was ewerything I wanted, ewerything he wanted for me, and he said he was—he was happy for me. When I sent photos home, when they realized who my l'ubimaya Monty was, Papa was so proud, he told eweryone he knew. In the neighborhood, in our church, at his work—he made sure eweryone knew the great Montgomery Scott was in love with his son."

"Yer kidding me," Scotty laughed, but he knew it was true. Pavel's sense of humor didn't run that way.

"Why would I kid about that?" he asked innocently, smiling when Scotty kissed him between the eyes.

"My da' was a lovely man, but he never would have accepted me as gay. Me mum never has, and even being loved by the great Pavel Andreievich Chekov has na' changed her mind."

"You tell her I am great?"

"Aye. But she's old fashioned. She wants a daughter-in-law and grandbabies, not a seventeen year old genius wi' a grand mind."

"I am sorry, Monty."

"Aye, well, 'tis her loss. She'd love you if she gave you half a chance. But yer da', he is na' like that, is he?" It felt odd referring to the deceased Andrei Chekov in the present tense, but Pavel was and he didn't want to poke at fresh wounds by doing otherwise. If it went on too long, he would deal with it then.

"Papa loves his children, no matter what. I am brilliant, no? I graduated the Academy at an age younger than many who are just starting, and I am a helmsman on the Enterprise, the Federation flagship. I did ewerything he could have asked and more. What does it matter who I sleep with, who I love, so long as that person is worthy?"

"One of the things I love aboot you is yer humility," Scotty grinned.

"I am not bragging, although I could. It is just the truth, no?"

"Aye, it's the truth," he agreed, ruffling Pavel's curls.

"But without Papa, I do not know exactly what comes next. I wanted to have my own ship, to be a captain and one day an admiral, maybe the youngest admiral in Starfleet, so that I could share it with him. Make him proud. Monty, who will be proud of me now?" His voice broke ever so slightly, his bright blue eyes filmed with tears, and he hid his face against Scotty's chest.

"I will be, love. I'm not yer da', and I don' want to be, but I will always be proud of you. And you'll be proud of yourself. I know he's yer inspiration, but yer a man now, old enough to do things for yer own sake. Because it's good and right and because you want to, not just to please someone else."

Pavel nodded but didn't raise his head.

"Do ye understand me, Pasha?"

"Da," he whispered, and whether he was saying yes or repeating Scotty's word for papa, was unknown and irrelevant. Scotty hugged him hard, sliding his hand up into the soft curls, and Pavel finally burst into tears. "Papa," he sobbed, clutching the bigger man with all his strength. "Da, Papa."

"It's a'right, Pasha. A man can cry when he needs to. Even wee Russian geniuses can cry."

Pavel nodded again, still sobbing, but reaching now for control. Trying to find a way to pull it back and be a man again, in spite of Scotty's words.

"You know, when I was a wee lad, me da' used to sing to me when I was sad. Aye, and he had a grand voice, so deep and strong. He knew all the old, old Scottish songs, and he sang them to me late at night, when I was scared of the dark. It's just aboot all I remember of him, but it's enough. Did yer da' ever sing to you?"

He nodded again, trying not to remember his papa's gentle tenor and failing miserably. Pavel would hear that voice, those songs, for the rest of his life. But suddenly he heard another voice, low and rough with a Scottish burr.

"_I left my baby lying here,_  
Lying here, lying here  
I left my baby lying here  
To go and gather blaeberries. 

I found the wee brown otter's track  
Otter's track, otter's track  
I found the wee brown otter's track  
"But ne'er a trace o' my baby, O."

Pavel felt his heart break open in his chest, overwhelmed at last, and wailed his grief to Scotty's understanding soul. Broad, gentle hands cradled his sweat-damp head, holding him close as the lullaby went on, soft and implacable, tearing him apart.

"_I found the track of the swan on the lake_  
Swan on the lake, swan on the lake  
I found the track of the swan on the lake  
But not the track of my baby, O.

"I found the trail of the mountain mist  
Mountain mist, mountain mist  
I found the trail of the mountain mist  
But ne'er a trace of my baby, O."

Pavel bore him down, burrowed his face into Scotty's shoulder and shrieked, abandoning all pretense of self-control. It was ugly and frightening, one of the worst things Scotty had ever seen, and he ordered the computer to find and alert McCoy without Pavel even noticing. He just went on weeping, venting a future lifetime of grief, preparing himself for the emptiness to come. And Scotty just went on singing.

"_Hovan, Hovan Gorry og O,_  
Gorry og, O, Gorry og O  
Hovan, Hovan Gorry og O  
I've lost my darling baby, O."

Neither heard the door open, and this time Pavel didn't feel the hypospray in his neck. He collapsed on Scotty's chest, those soft words of love and loss the last thing he heard as he went to sleep.

"_I found the track of the swan on the lake_  
Swan on the lake, swan on the lake  
I found the track of the swan on the lake  
But not the track of my baby, O."


End file.
